Author's Note: This is so late, I'm sorry! The world has been busy over here and now I've gone back to uni for the year, it's only going to get busier. I'm really going to try to keep updating regularly but if I'm late, you'll know why. The first half of this chapter is quite slow-paced, but I really wanted to make the point of how transitioning from captivity to something else is extremely hard on Harry's mind, so I hope it's not too boring. Much love to all the reviews I've gotten, as well to all the followers and favourites. Really makes my day. Thanks everyone!
Harry came from the depths of unconsciousness with a startled yelp and flailing arms. He had dreamed of Bellatrix's wide, gaping smile again, where he had fallen into her cavernous maw with her shrieks of laughter following him as he tumbled. The dream was fading already, but he could have sworn he had heard the sounds of a baby's cries the further he fell. Feeling jumpy, he quickly scanned the room to make sure Bellatrix, or some other horror, wasn't lurking in the corner of his cell. That was when he realised a few things.
The first was that he was, in fact, not in his cell at all. There seemed to be a small slit of light coming from the top of the wall behind him, so that the room was dimly lit and he was able to make out the features. It was about five and a half feet wide and nine feet long, with a cream carpeted floor and a white ceiling. Along the back and side walls were different sized planks made of a dark brown wood and at the front of the room was a white, heavy-looking door with a golden handle. The layout of the room looked vaguely familiar and after considering it, he came to the conclusion that he was in a walk-in wardrobe, something he had only seen in pictures of a rich person's house, that had all the shelves and drawers taken out from the structures. This could be a whole new place of imprisonment, but it wasn't the stone walls and floors he had grown accustomed to.
The second thing he came to notice was that he wasn't chained anymore, with nothing holding him to the ground except his own stunned body. He tentatively stretched out his arms, which were stiff and sore, but they were free. Next he wiggled his legs, relishing how it felt to be able to move. He stood up shakily, using the planks on the side as leverage, and slowly walked to the door at the front. After days of not being able to walk he was a bit haphazard in his stride, but he was just grateful to be unshackled. He tried the door handle but it was locked, he had expected nothing less.
The third thing he registered was his general health. His leg, which he had last seen as gushing blood and stabbed from the inside by a shattered bone, was unmarked and whole. It bore no pain as he strode around the room. His ribs were similarly healed and he took deep, refreshing breaths. He could see no more bruises or open wounds on his body, save for an already fading scar on his wrist and he could feel a scab on his forehead. He looked down at his bare chest and saw that a bandage was wrapped around it, covering the Dark Mark that was carved into his skin. It wasn't hurting but he didn't want to remove the bandage, if the wound was not healed and still fresh upon his skin like a message to remind him of his time in the stone room. Overall, he felt good. His body was stiff from lack of use and he was very hungry, but other than that, he could almost pretend that he had never been the Death Eater's plaything.
The last thing he noticed lay on the floor, at the head of the king single sized mattress he had woken up on. It was a bundle that he knelt to and then quickly wiped his watering eyes as he understood what it was. There was a single pillow, a cotton quilt and a thick, woollen, black robe. They were such simple pieces of commodities, items which he had taken for granted for most of his life and after spending days with only a cold, stone floor to which to rest his body and clad only in his underwear, seeing these things lying innocently there hit him hard.
He gently dressed himself in the robe, settled his head on the pillow and wrapped himself inside the quilt. From there, he cried long and hard, because he knew he wasn't safe yet, and he'd never leave his stone cell, it would always live in his mind. He eventually cried himself to sleep, alone on the mattress, the quilt tightly around his body like cocoon.
When he awoke later on, the slit of light was now dark and the room was full of shadows. He was still wrapped tightly in the sheets and he lay that way for a while, revelling in the warmth. It wasn't until he heard the soft cry of a bird somewhere outside that he noticed he felt different. He couldn't put his finger on it, but something was off about him. Something small but significant. What had happened to him recently? He'd been tortured and starved, carved and broken, but that wasn't all. What was he not remembering?
He squeezed his eyes shut and thought hard. Voldemort had come to see him, that's right. He thought he had greeted his death but here he was, alive and breathing. The memories of that day was slowly surfacing in his mind, the old projector finally kicking into gear and grunting along. He was told he had confessed the secret of the Horcruxes, he remembered that with a pang of guilt. He wanted to move quickly on from that so he didn't drown in despair. What else happened? Voldemort made their blood interact, yes, and then he had kissed Harry's stomach, in a bizarre twist of events. There had been visions. And then...and then what? There was something else. Something bad. Something…
Oh. He remembered. The powerful hands on his skin. The ripping. The pain. The violation of his body in the most shameful and intrusive way, the complete theft of his sense of control in his own self. He felt a sickly sense of disgust spread over his body and he didn't want to be seen by anyone ever again, he would be content to just rot in this room as long as he'd be left alone. He was tainted, ruined forever. For a little while, he could only lay there as the recollections of what Voldemort done to him kept attacking his mind. He took deep, long breaths until his thumping heart slowed down.
There had been more after...after the incident. He remembered being filled up with that horribly cold liquid and dropping to the floor, his broken leg jarring against the hard ground, but his mind had gone to another place at that point. There had been a new vision, a stronger, clearer one this time. Not just snippet of scenes but an entirety of one. He had been Voldemort - no, he had been inside of Voldemort, watching his mother die and the wand being lowered at him, watching one of the most critical moments in his life. Of course, the spell that meant to kill him had backfired and Voldemort had been ripped from his body, destroying the house as he went and leaving that little baby behind. In the vision he had left Voldemort's body and then gone into his own, but he didn't know what that meant. Had it been symbolic of the prophecy coming true because of Voldemort's decision? He felt a distressing sensation in the back of his head that he wasn't making an important connection, but his mind was perhaps too damaged now to see any hidden answers.
What he sincerely wanted to know was how he ended up in this room. All he could think of, after coming back from the vision and crawling a few steps in a desperate attempt to flee, was feeling an odd sensation spread out from his chest to the rest of his body and then it was all red. Whatever had happened, if there had been anything at all, was hidden behind a red curtain that fell over his memories. He thought as hard as he could as he lay on that mattress, but after a long time he only had a stinging headache and no further explanations. He could only conclude that an upgrade to a room like this meant that Voldemort wanted to keep him alive for a bit longer, for whatever reasons. He couldn't help but be reminded of when the Dursley's moved him from the bedroom under the stairs to the smallest bedroom to keep his mind away from the Hogwarts letters streaming into the house.
After his mind had been rendered useless in remembering what had happened, he tried to climb up to the slit of window using the wooden slats on the wall. It became clear very quickly that he had become very weak during his time locked up, as he couldn't even lift his body off of the ground. His arms were shaking with the attempt to pull up his body weight, which from what he could see and feel, wasn't the mass he was accustomed to. He did laps around the small room at a feeble attempt of exercise but it did not take long to be drawing shallow, harsh breaths and wobbling around on shaky legs. He resigned himself to the mattress and tried to stay awake and figure out the mess he was in, but his body could not handle being active any longer and he fell, once again, into a doze. Every so often he would awake, shivering and gasping, having been in dreams where shrouded men and women laughed and tortured him. After calming down his heart, he would fall back asleep, exhausted, and repeat the process until sunlight once again streamed in from the little window.
A sudden knocking filled his head and broke the dream he was having. Without opening his eyes, he groaned into his pillow. It would be his Aunt Petunia, rapping at his door to get him up and do his daily duties, something which she had pushed him to the extreme doing yesterday, judging from how tired he felt. But, hang on, that knocking was a lot deeper than he was used to - perhaps someone was at the front door, but in that case, why wasn't someone answering it? It seemed to go on for a long time. Now that he thought about it, this bed didn't feel quite right to him and he had never heard knocking in the Dursley house that deep before.
With a gasp, Harry suddenly sat straight up in his makeshift bed. The thought of being in the Privet Drive house disappeared in an instant and he remembered exactly where he was. Someone was knocking at the white door of the walk-in wardrobe, knocking hard. Doused in cold terror, Harry scooted himself backwards until he hit the wall and then crawled into a corner, curling his body up to be as small as he could. He had known his pain wasn't over, he had known he wouldn't be let off that easy, there were fresh new torturers out the front and he knew it, they would be back to hurt him again and again and again, he would never be free or safe as long as he lived. He started to shake violently and put his fist into his mouth to stop the screams and sobs that threatened to escape him. The knocking continued, loud and sure, reverberating in his skull with every beat. He couldn't take it anymore and he covered his ears with his hands and tightly closed his eyes, wishing that he were anywhere else but here. Suddenly:
Flashes of his past torture drilled into his mind and he wasn't in the walk-in wardrobe anymore, but back in the stone room, encircled by Death Eaters and other various enemies, most notably being of Bellatrix and Voldemort. They were shouting curses with their wands held aloft, all pointed at Harry who could only watch them from his confinement. He felt pain penetrate every inch of his skin and he tried to scream but they had gagged him so any expression of pain, bar his tears, were muffled. They were cackling and jeering and he wished for the sweet release of escape, death, anything was better than this.
Just as abruptly, he was back in the walk-in wardrobe, jerking out of his flashback. It had felt so real that it took a while for him to realise that this cream coloured, carpeted room wasn't a dream but reality. Once again taking shallow breaths to calm himself, he noticed that the knocking had stopped and the door remained closed. The dusty sunlight showed that he was still alone in this small room. The only change was a tall glass that sat on the floor near the door with a folded piece of paper next to it. He forced himself to crawl slowly over to it, nerves wound tightly. The glass was plain with small droplets of condensation running down the sides, filled to the brim with a light-golden coloured liquid. It seemed perfectly innocuous. Harry looked down at the note beside it and in neat, uninteresting handwriting were the words;
Being deprived of substantial solid foods in your diet for so long
means that regular foods will have to be introduced to your
digestive system slowly, starting with juices.
Ensure that you drink this apple juice.
It was not signed by any name at the bottom. Harry shot a doubtful glance at the glass, hearing his stomach rumble, but not being able to trust this apparent sign of goodwill. Nothing he had experienced so far hinted at keeping his health positive. He picked up the note and flipped it over if there was anything else on the back. In the same writing, there was a short note that seemed to predict exactly what he had thought and addressed those thoughts;
It's not poison.
There was nothing else on the note and after rereading, he chucked it to the side, and regarded the apple juice. On one hand, he didn't think he could trust anyone anymore - let alone an anonymous juice giver - to not be planning something to hurt him, and the chances this juice was poisoned was extremely high. On the other hand, what did he have to lose at this point? It seemed too often recently he was coming to the cusp of death and not ever reaching it, so why not keep plunging forward?
Besides, he thought as he picked up his drink in shaking hands, spilling some over the edges, if he had to die comfortably with juice in his throat then that'd be okay to him. Better than a wand at his throat anytime. One sip of the sweet liquid was enough to confirm there wasn't any dastardly plot, but he still made sure to sit far away from the door if someone were to announce their presence again. Despite everything, he was still absolutely terrified of what awaited him, but like seeing the small commodities next to his mattress, the apple juice calmed him in a simple, long-forgotten way.
For five days that he could kept track of with the rise and fall of the sun (how easy it was for him to fall into the habit of keeping time once again) a knock would resonate on the door during mid-afternoon, heralding the presence of something new to fill his shrunken stomach. With each knock, he couldn't help but be taken back to the time of his torture, the flashbacks taking over his mind with such ease. It was as if his food-giver knew knocking sent him into another world, because when he'd finally be free from his memories, there'd be a new item on the floor for him to consume. He tried to keep a clear mind to see who it was, but he just couldn't control his reaction. Whoever was feeding him was as much of a mystery as where he was.
On the fifth day, he had gotten enough energy in his muscles to pull himself to the small window. His view was from high up, looking over an expansive forest of trees that stretched on for as far as he could see. Pulling himself higher and angling his sight-line down, he could make out a large, green lawn enclosed by a high brick wall that was backed by the forest. He could make out the tops of a few smaller buildings on the grounds, but nothing significant to give him any indicator of where he was. He couldn't even tell if he was in Britain anymore.
Harry spent a few minutes holding himself up at the window and taking in what he could see of the scenery before him. He had not seen the real world - apart from the soft rays of sunlight - in too long, much too long. He had forgotten it, lost within his own world of pain and confusion, guarded by tall walls of encasement of his own. But now - looking out into the real world, where the tops of the trees rustled with a small breeze and clouds floated lazily along the blue sky, he remembered what he had left. There was a war going on out there, somewhere. Had there already been a winner declared? Was Voldemort defeated or was he reigning supreme? How had the world changed since he had been gone, or had it not changed at all? Was he ever going to be free and let back into his normal world, or was this his life now? Was this even a life?
A bird was flying in the distance over the tops of the trees and he watched its flight, feeling so apart from the real world that was continuing on without him. He wished the bird would fly to him, coming through his window and offering a wing so he could fly on its back and be taken away. Suddenly, he became aware of a new sound. Not coming from outside the room but somewhere close by, a rattling sound. He turned his head and saw that the golden handle of the door, usually still and unimportant, was jiggling. His already weak legs that had been shaking now collapsed completely and he fell bodily on to the mattress below. He gathered himself as his heart thud heavily against his chest, threatening to explode or stop completely, and saw the handle jingle once more. Then, the door made a click and it swung outwards.
It was dark beyond the door, the light from his room barely penetrating the one beyond. He could see shadowy objects but not discern what they were. He couldn't see any person or person's but they could easily be hidden among the darkness. There was no sound, apart from his convulsing heart and laboured breathing; no threats yelled, no spells thrown his way, no persuasion to leave the room. Only silence and darkness. For a long time he stayed where he was, in a defensive position on the mattress and perched ready to attack if he saw anything beyond the doorway - but there was nothing.
It was obvious the door had opened for him to go through, whether as a taunt or a trap he couldn't be sure, but the door remained still and he felt it stay that way until he went through it. Nerves still wound tight and his heart still thudding, he looked around his room for a weapon. He had already tried to remove the wooden structures from the walls but they were resolutely stuck with no bolts or screws for him to undo. The mattress couldn't be ripped open so that he could fashion a bed spring as a weapon and there had been nothing in his robe that he could use. The only thing left was one of the glasses he had been given yesterday for his meal, that hadn't yet been taken away like the others. He already knew that the glass couldn't break, no matter how much he slammed it against the floor, but it could be suitable for a blunt weapon. He picked it up in his shaking hands and gripped it tight; it would do.
The room beyond remained silent as he slowly approached the door, his eyes probing desperately into the shadows. He stood on the threshold, using the door frame as support with one hand and holding the glass aloft with the other, his heart now erratic and his breathing bordering on hyperventilating. He took one hesitant step. Nothing happened. He took another step. Still, nothing happened. His eyes adjusted to the darkness and he could start to make out some furniture, a table and a couch were the closest in his peripheral. Another step. More furniture came to light but he could not see any walls as of yet, this room was apparently very large, and not lit by any sources of light. One more step and he looked back to the doorway of his little room, now seeming so faraway and small, its light offering comfort and safety. He looked away before he could bolt back in there. One more step, and now a large, expansive bed came from the shadows; a regal one that could surely house a small family on it. Behind it, finally, was one wall, removing some of the feeling that he was lost in an abyss. With another step he finally saw a door with the tiniest slit of light coming from the bottom of it, a small but desperately hopeful line of light. Filled with a sudden burst of hope he broke into a run and went for the door almost tasting escape on his dry lips. The door and the wall grew closer and other parts of the room came into focus as he ran but he could only focus on the door. He was so close now and he reached out his hand for its handle, like he was reaching for a snitch when -
Behind him, a loud slam. He whipped his head around and saw that the wardrobe door was closed and the only light source now gone. In his shock he forgot he was still running and crashed sickly into the door and crumpled to the floor. The glass fell from his hands and rolled away into the darkness. His head was swimming and he blindly tried to find the door handle, hands moving desperately and from behind him he could hear soft footsteps. It had been a trap. He had to escape. He found the handle and tried to open the door but it was locked, staying defiantly shut.
"No!" He gasped, pulling as hard as he could but the door stayed closed. He had been so stupid, of course the door would be locked! How foolish of him to think escape would be that easy. He turned quickly, putting his back against the door and scanning the room, hearing those footsteps approaching but not being able to make out anything in the inky blackness. He did not realise he was gibbering quietly to himself, his body shaking violently, his heart beating a tattoo on his skinny chest.
The footsteps stopped, close to him, much too close. He couldn't see anything. He couldn't hear anything. He had started to bit his lip in fear so that blood was slowly trickling down his chin. There was a sudden flash of light and a lamp on a table to his right was suddenly filled with a rippling fire. It filled the space he was in with a small cocoon of light. At first, he was the only one in that cave of light. But then a figure, emerging from the shadows with the ease of a man who knew how to live in the darkness, stepped into the light and he was no longer alone. One look at that gaunt face sent Harry into a panic and he ran blindly into the darkness, not realising he was screaming. He crashed into various pieces of furniture and was sent flying the ground several times. Somehow he came to the wardrobe door and found himself, again, pulling desperately on a door handle that refused to open. He was stuck. He was terrified. He fell to the ground and rocked back and forth, tears mixing with his blood and falling to the floor. His mind was now in the grips of a powerful anxiety attack and he was taken far, far away, into his memories of being tortured and hurt.
Somewhere, back in the real world, those familiar hands gripped his wrists and pulled them apart. The Harry there tried to fight back but he was no match for the power the hands held. His chin was pulled upwards and his mouth forced open and some liquid was poured down his throat. The hands released him as he swallowed involuntarily.
Slowly, his anxiety and his fear started to ebb away and he started to return back to reality. His memories faded away and his mind was, thankfully, clear. The mounting panic that had encased his body was gone and his heart slowed, his shaking stopped, his gibbering mouth quieted. He leant back on the door as his body filled with calmness, soaking into his bones and his skin. While the perception of danger still resided in his mind, the edges had been softened considerably. He took a deep breath.
In front of him stood Voldemort, tall and dark as ever, the shadows making him look like a skull. He was corking an empty glass vial while not taking his eyes from Harry.
"Calming Draught," he said quietly in his high voice, "I didn't think I'd need all of it but it seems your psyche is more damaged than I originally thought."
Harry didn't know what to reply to that, so he stayed quiet. Voldemort finally succeeded in corking bottle and he placed it on a table beside him. Somewhere in the back of Harry's mind - perhaps the same place where he had fought off the Imperius curse - a little, tiny voice was urging him that he was in big, big trouble. How he could sit there calmly as Voldemort towered above him was absurd, it pleaded, and it was time to run. The voice, though audible, was too weak for the calm feeling he was drenched in.
"It is interesting how much the mind can take. How much torture and pain it can sustain without splintering. The body may collapse before the mind ever does," Voldemort continued, still gazing at Harry, "and while your mind is cracked it is not broken. You're not insane."
"I feel a bit insane," Harry croaked out. "I have no idea what's going on."
Voldemort nodded. "I intend to change that. We're going to palaver, do you know that word? No matter, it's not important. Come."
He turned and walked to a set of brown leather chairs just off to their left, lighting a lamp as he went and illuminating the room a tad more. Harry, knowing he was supposed to follow, rose jerkily to his feet. He wasn't shaking which was nice. He made his way slowly to the chairs, trying not to make eye contact with the man standing there waiting.
"Sit," Voldemort ordered and waved his hand at the chair. Instinctively, Harry flinched, expecting an attack. When nothing came he quickly sat in the chair and pulled his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around his legs. Voldemort sat down across from him with the same intense gaze.
"I'm not going to kill you," he said.
"Excuse me?" Harry replied in total disbelief. "That's all you try to do."
"If I had wanted to kill you, I would have already done so. I already told you, we're going to palaver - we're going to talk. And I don't have time for you to say redundant things."
"I have no idea what's going on, so forgive me if I don't sound particularly loquacious," Harry snapped.
"You dare speak to me like an insolent child? Do you not remember I have the capability to severely hurt you and crack your mind even more?"
"You just said you wouldn't kill me! That we're here to talk!"
"And we would discuss matters if you would hold your tongue," Voldemort hissed and they both fell quiet. Harry's confusion was growing rapidly with every passing word. What the hell was going on?
"Better," Voldemort said when the silence stretched on for minutes. "Let us not draw this on any longer than we need to. I'm going to talk and when I need you to talk, I will tell you so, if not you keep quiet. This isn't school and I'm not some teacher who will tolerate your insubordination; I am the Dark Lord and you are beneath me and you will do as your told. Nod if you understand."
Harry nodded. There was more silence for a short time, as it seemed that Voldemort was mulling over exactly what to say. Harry noticed that the little voice in the back of his head had grown louder and it seemed the Draught would eventually wear off soon. Voldemort would want to 'palaver' fast. The man stared briefly into the darker corners of the room before drawing a deep breath and beginning to talk.
"It seems our lives have been drawn together by an unbreakable rope, perhaps a noose would be more apt to say. The prophecy predicted you would have the power to destroy me. You tore me from my body, but you did not kill me. Like I have said, the body is redundant when the mind is strong. When our blood was mixed our connection became even stronger, though that was not my intent. Though we have been able to see into each others minds for many years, the connection had never been as significant as what I experienced when I shared my DNA with yours, in more ways than one. It showed me the true horror of what our fates really mean, what connection we truly share and the implications it has. What happened all those years ago on Halloween set forth in motion our entire lives and I might have never understood it. I do now. Do you understand what happened the night I tried to kill you? What that vision meant?"
"I...I thought it meant the prophecy was coming true," Harry mumbled, "I didn't try to figure it out. Thinking back to that made me sick."
Voldemort waved a hand at Harry's disgust. "Think, boy! You must have some idea at what it meant? Surely Dumbledore's brightest student is able to make the connection."
Harry tried to think hard; what had been in the vision again? Voldemort had tried to kill him as a baby but the spell backfired. In the vision he had been in Voldemort's body but as he was hit with the spell, he had gone out of it and into his own baby's body. If it wasn't some metaphorical representation of the prophecy coming true, then what was it? What was he missing? He had been in Voldemort before he was hit, and then he had gone into Harry's body.
"Is it something to do with our connection?" He guessed.
"It has everything to do with the connection," Voldemort agreed, "but think deeper."
Everything to do with their connection. So it was something related to being in Voldemort's body and then into his own, and that related to their connection. What was their connection? Harry was able to feel Voldemort's emotions and see into his mind. Voldemort had been able to use his mind to lay a trap and when he had tried to possess him, it caused him pain. He experienced pain in his scar when he was near. In the vision, he had left Voldemort and gone into the scar. So how did that make them have a connection? And why did Voldemort care so damn much? It wasn't as if when Voldemort died, a piece of himself had split off and -
"No," Harry whispered, eyes wide and staring right at Voldemort, "no, no, no! It can't be! That's impossible! NO!"
"Yes. You know it's true. I can feel it to be true, even if I denied what I saw I could still feel the truth in my soul. In our soul. Tell me, do you feel it too?" Voldemort said, suddenly reaching over and laying a pale hand on Harry's arm. At the contact of their skin, Harry's heart suddenly sped up and the odd, warm feeling in his chest grew alarmingly. He couldn't deny that sudden, strong surge of power that encased his body when that hand touched him. Yes, oh yes, he could feel it.
"What does this mean?" Harry asked softly. "All of it?"
"Now that I understand how foolish it would have been to kill you, how it would have chipped away at my life, I intend to keep you alive. At least until I find a way to remove my soul from your body. Until then, Potter, you will reign with me. You might not want to now, but that power in your body can only grow as your true soul seeks power. A soul like mine would not contend to be weak and what's left of that Potter soul will decay and your true destiny will be apparent. To serve alongside me."
Harry looked at those crimson eyes that flashed with power, that tiny voice in his head screaming that it was all dangerous and ridiculous but a stronger, warmer part of his body saying how perfect this was. How right it would be. How right it would feel to do so. Oh, he could feel the Calming Draught wearing off and he was so conflicted and confused and he didn't know what to do. He could only stare as the man stared back just as strongly, mouth set in a resolute line of man who had already decided the future. Voldemort leaned forward, placing his hands on his knees and spoke softly but sincerely to Harry, leaving no room to denial or rejection. He spoke the truth.
"You're mine," Voldemort said simply. "You're my Horcrux."
Author's Note: Another note! Hope the build up was worth it. It's definitely going to move along to more exciting (and less torture/incarceration) story-line after this. This chapter was written over a sporadic period of weeks so if the writing style seems different and disjointed, that is why. I have so much of this story planned out that I really hope you all enjoyed it so I can keep writing. Thanks for reading again. All the best!